


Ye Olde Drabblerie

by neverwhyonlywho



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwhyonlywho/pseuds/neverwhyonlywho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A home for my assorted Doctor Who drabbles under 1000 words. Most are rated K+ or T. NSFW chapters are labeled. (Latest chapter rating: T.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss the Cook

**Author's Note:**

> Eleven x River. Response to the one-word prompt "Pancakes." (thanks whochester!)

River woke to the smell of breakfast drifting in under the door. To this, her first conscious thought was a colorful rendition of the words “oh, no.”

This was not good.

She took only enough time to wash her face and slip on the dressing gown tossed carelessly over the chair by the armoire. The fact that the Doctor hadn’t even bothered to put it back on told her he was up to no good.

It would be so like him to set the kitchen on fire. Again. The last time he’d cooked, that entire wing of the TARDIS had smelled like the color black for _weeks_. She had a sneaking suspicion that he had consigned himself to microwaveable fish fingers and instant custard while she was gone. And going out to dinner all the time was lovely and romantic, but she had a feeling that those dates, too, had reasons that did not involve courting her so much as preserving her health and safety.

She grabbed a fire extinguisher on her way to the kitchen, just to be on the safe side.

When she got there, though, there was no grease fire, no catastrophe at all—not even a scorched pan. There was only the Doctor gingerly flipping pancakes on low heat, glancing frequently to a cookbook open on the counter next to him.

River put the fire extinguisher down. “Well this is a surprise.”

He must not have heard her come in; he jumped a bit, flailed a little—that body of his never could seem to figure out where to put all those limbs, could it?—and his face broke into a wide smile. “And good morning to you too, Doctor Song! Hungry, I hope? Pancakes and eggs? Got some bacon in the fridge, but I thought the smell would wake you up, and I was going to bring it up to you so I didn’t want to—”

“If you’re cooking, I’m eating.”

He was, in fact, wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron—where had he got _that_ , she wondered? Either way, she was happy to oblige.

Particularly since he wasn’t wearing anything else.

(Undercooked pancakes or not, there were worse ways to start the morning.)


	2. Charting Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor isn't cut out for domestic life. Takes place during The Power Of Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleven x River. Response to the one-word prompt "laptop." (thanks anon!)  
> This is getting a standalone second chapter; I'll post the link here when it's finished.

The Doctor was not cut out for domestic life.

Once Amy and Rory sloughed off to work each morning, he didn’t know what to do with himself. Sure, the Wii was fun, and so was pruning the hedges, and eating a little bit of cereal with his morning bowl of sugar and milk, but there was only so much a fellow could do before the day just started to stretch on…and on…and on.

The third time he bolted down the stairs at the sound of Amy’s key in the door, nearly knocking over an heirloom vase _again_ , she’d apparently had enough.

“Doctor,” she warned, folding her arms, “You’ve been here less than a week. Keep this up and _I will crate you_. Any news on the cubes?”

“Not a thing. Also, dogs hate crates. I think I would too.”

“Well-behaved dogs don’t need them.” She gave him a stern glare, trying very hard not to laugh. “Does River have a laptop? Why don’t you chat with her while we’re at work?”

The Doctor blinked. “She has all of space and time, but I’ve never seen her using one. Could do, though.”

As it turned out, she did.

On the seventh day, the Doctor discovered Skype.

And it was very, very good.


	3. Some Women Want Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine x Rose, not long after 1x02 ("The End of the World").

“I smell chips,” said Rose.

“You’re having olfactory hallucinations,” said the Doctor.

“No, really—it smells like it’s coming from…”—she looked around slowly, sniffing—”…over there.”

“Rose, we’re on an interstellar cargo ship hundreds of light-years from Earth. You’re smellin’ things that aren’t there. I promise.” He handed her a stapler gun. “Now try and focus.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Then why’s that sign say ‘Cafeteria 0.2km Ahead’?”

“…Well.” The Doctor frowned, straightening his leather jacket. “You never know,” he said matter-of-factly. “It might be a trap.”

Rose rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help her smile. “You still owe me chips, you know. Haven’t forgot, have you?”

“Never could dare,” he assured her.

“Well come on then, tightwad. Second date. You know what they say, turnabout’s fair play and all that. Chips are on _you_ this time, mister.” She caught her tongue between her teeth in inviting grin. “And no excuses, ‘cause you’ve got your currency chip on you. There’s none of this business that can’t wait ‘til after lunch.”

“Some women want flowers,” said the Doctor, almost to himself, as he pocketed his sonic with a sigh. “Rose Tyler wants potatoes. Unusual girl, you are.”

“I don’t hear you complainin’.”

“Never will, Rose,” he grinned widely and took her hand. “Never will.”


	4. Unbind Me (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven has a problem.  
> (Prompt: "unbind me." Thanks Courtney!)

“River. River!” He turned his head this way and that, trying to see her, but the blindfold did its job well. The lighting in the room was dim, too—just a small candle on her desk by the door. Not enough to see by. Too far away.

Only shadows. Here in this little room, River took her form in moving shadows.

The sound of her bare feet on carpet. The sound of her body moving, all whispers, the shift of curls or a quiet breath. The smell of her: flowers and whiskey. A topnote of leather. And under that, the faint, dizzying scent of human female arousal.

Oh, Rassilon, he _wanted_.

“River,” he repeated, definitely not begging. Felt her fingers trace lightly down the back of his neck, felt every hair on his body stand up straight for it. And something else, too.

“My love?” Her lips against his ear, murmuring. Gooseflesh over his entire body. _Touch,_ it was screaming at him. _Touch or be touched, doesn’t matter which!_

But he couldn’t and she wouldn’t.

Her teeth closed lightly over his earlobe and he made a noise that he doubted even the TARDIS could translate. His hands flexed, wrists pulled at his bindings in a futile effort. He was at her mercy and it was terrible and wonderful.

“Doctor?” More words in his ear, low and lazy, forming like caresses of their own inside his muddied mind. “You called me. Did you want something, my love, or are you just going to lay there and growl?”

“Uncuff me now.” He pulled at the cuffs again, tried to turn his wrists in them, even knowing he’d never get them out. “Please. Let me touch you. I need—I need to touch you. Need to. You want me to. I don’t know how you can stand this.”

“Need and want are two different things, Doctor,” she warned.

“Need,” he said firmly. “ _Need_.”

Her laugh bubbled through his veins, made him giddy. Giddy and pleading and trying very hard not to buck up under her casually wandering hands.

“Ah, but you know very well why you’re in those cuffs. If I let you go now, will you behave?”

“No. Never. Not a chance.”

She kissed him then, clever and teasing, and he wasn’t sure which was better: that, or the click on his cuffs as she released him.

“Good answer,” she purred.


	5. Chemical Signaling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARDIS brought Eleven here for a reason.  
> (Prompt provided by fandommember. Thanks dear!)

River has been here, and recently.

But something's different--he can taste it in the air. And it's not the house. The house itself is fine; all is in order in the kitchen, at least. Evening sunlight is streaming through wooden Venetian blinds, illuminating motes of dust drifting through the air. It's homey. It's cozy. River likes it, at least, and that's good enough.

He can't quite tell what's different about the air. It's some organic compound. It rings a very distant bell, one he can't quite place. Not danger, though. No fear hormones.

There's only one odd thing about the kitchen: the wine glasses aren't down.

The wine glasses are _always_ down when River's about.

He adjusts his bowtie slowly, thoughtfully. Then, he heads upstairs.

****

He finds her in the bedroom, fast asleep. She's on her side and facing away from him, all curves and curls from this angle. Still lovely. Always lovely.

From here, he can tell that the disturbance is hormonal; it makes his nose twitch, sends his mind into loops, trying to figure out where he knows that chemical signal from. He likes to think his memory is fantastic, but this must be something from very long ago, to ring such a bell and not remember the tune it came from.

He'd let the TARDIS take him here of her own free will. No other agenda, no plan except indulging his old girl. So, if she wants him to be here, then here he will be.

But it’s odd, he thinks, that River would be asleep in the middle of the day.

Not as if he’s about to wake her, though. He’d made that mistake once—and only once. And it has been a good week since he’s slept; maybe a catnap wouldn’t come amiss. He shucks off his shoes as quietly as he can, slips his sonic out of his coat pocket and puts it on the bedside table, lifts up the comforter and slides gingerly into bed.

River stirs lightly when he does, and after a few still moments he thinks he’s gotten away with not waking her. He lays behind her, keeping a few regrettable inches between them. It would be nice to touch her when she wa—

She shifts a little, and he feels her toes nudge his shin gently. Feels the ball of her foot stroke his leg in friendly greeting, and he can’t help his smile.

“Hello, sweetie.” Her voice is soft and thick with sleep. “Come here.”

He budges up to meet her, pressing flush against her smooth lines of back and buttock and leg. He can’t resist the urge to kiss her shoulder, so he doesn’t try.

“Hello, dear.” He snuffles happily into the sea of curls in front of him and is rewarded with a low chuckle. He is also rewarded by her removing his hand from her hip and pulling it snugly around her body.

“Missed you,” she says. He hums his agreement, kissing the back of her neck, nuzzling her hair, trying to figure her out. Definitely hormonal. Outright shouting it on his tongue. But—?

He closes his eyes, tracing the lines of the chemicals in his mind, drawing resonances and methyl groups and bond angles. Mentally tracks the line of it through her body and watches this strange compound singing and bending and tracing its way through bone and blood and…oh.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

She must feel him start, because when he pulls his hand back, she lets it go.

“You’re—”

“Yes.” She turns her face to look him over through one drowsy eye. Her smile is…quiet. Serene, even. How it manages to be mischievous as well is entirely beyond him. She reaches and takes his hand back, presses it, cups it low over her belly. There isn’t much to cup—yet.

But there will be, in time.

“Is it—” _–ours? –mine?_ He struggles over the words, ends up bumbling his way into saying nothing.

Her thumb brushes over the back of his hand, lightly stroking. Reassuring. Reading his mind, as she often does. “Ours, yes. Yours, no.”

He blinks. “Not—? But—oh! Older me?”

“Older you.” Her fingertips trace over his fingernails, and he gets the distinct impression that she is very, very accustomed to these idle acts of affection. “Different you, too.”

Different him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, momentarily senseless with relief—they have more time. Much more time. He wants to shout out his gratitude to something, anything, but has no idea what or who.

“I…good. Wonderful. Congratulations, River.” He kisses the curve of her neck, is going to turn her and kiss her mouth, too, but he has a thought and stops short. “Er—congratulations is the right word, right? Are you…is this…good?” _Do you want this? Or was this another mistake, did I derail your life in some other way beyond the multitude of ways I already have?_

“It wasn’t an accident, if that’s what you’re asking.” _You wanted it too,_ her tone tells him.

“Oh.” He feels it, the big stupid grin taking over his face, but there’s no point in stopping it. “Good. Brilliant. But no ‘spoilers’ for me this time? Seems like that’d be a gigantic one.”

“I told the TARDIS I needed you and why,” she says. “If you’re the one she sent, I imagine this is when you need to know.”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath without really thinking about it and traces his thumb over her skin, over the tiny, impossible spark beneath. “Anything. Whatever you need.”

“First,” she begins, “go downstairs. Leftmost cupboard. Bring me two squares of dark chocolate and a hot cuppa. I haven’t been able to keep a thing down all day. Then come back and curl up right where you are now. Your mission is to nap with me, Time Lord. I always feel better, having you here. We both do.”

He laughs. He can’t help it. Of course he would travel across space and time and end up waiting on River Song. Of course he would.

And come to think of it, it’s perfect.


	6. Handcuffed Together (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven and River have a problem.  
> (Prompt: "handcuffed together." Thanks M!)

It starts out at the worst possible time.

He's minding his own business--well, minding River's own business. He's busy, at any rate: her fingers are threaded through his hair and he _really_ rather likes it when she scratches his scalp like that, and the handcuffs mean that there's metal against his forehead and a bit of chain between his ear and her thigh but it doesn't matter because she's making the _best_ noises. She's delightfully vocal, sensitive to the lightest flick of the tongue. He likes it when she squirms, likes it better when she whimpers.

Not screaming yet, but he has a feeling she will be.

He's not a patient man by any means, but he thinks he can be patient for this--thinks he would very much like to take his time, actually, bring her through a long crescendo, make her beg. Make River Song beg and cry out. Make River Song come. Yes. Yes, that would be very good.

He has just enough time to wonder exactly who is handcuffed to whom here—just enough time to wonder which of them is the captive, which the captor, enough time to get one good, proper moan out of her, and then he hears the cloister bells.

They swear in unison.


	7. Zip Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and Tentoo start with a date.  
> (Prompt "zip me" provided by thefatalfetus2. Thanks!)

She knew it was silly to be nervous. Ridiculous, even, after all they'd been through together. Nestene duplicates? No problem. Homicidal Slitheen? Nothing to it. Mysterious planet orbiting a black hole and possessed by a malevolent force of unknown origin? Stressful, but ultimately still doable.

But a proper date with a half-human Doctor? Terrifying.

He'd only been here a few days. They were still getting used to each other, still settling in, both of them willing but a bit shy. And she had laughed about it to herself—how she now had him for the rest of his life—their lives—and suddenly she was all hesitation and second-guessing what he wanted and needed and how he was adjusting and everything else she could think of.

There was no guarantee he wanted her. He’d been thrust here. He could have offered himself to her because there was no other alternative, because it was the only way to make things even slightly right, because—

She always had to stop herself on that line of thought. It got nowhere, and it left her feeling like she’d just stepped off a ledge much steeper than she expected. And how would she land? How would they?

He seemed to feel as unsure as she did, but then yesterday he'd caught her in the hallway and kissed her before she really knew what was happening and they'd stood there blinking at each other afterward and he'd simply said, "Let me take you to dinner tomorrow."

"Dinner." Not the brightest response, but it begged confirmation, at least. He'd opened his mouth to reply, closed it, paused a moment, started again.

"I want to do this properly. So, let me take you out tomorrow. A proper date. Please."

Oh. Well, that was a good sign.

She'd blinked. Nodded. Smiled, which brought out that lovely smile of his own. "'Kay. Um—casual? Or..."

"Wear a dress," was all he'd said, and then he squeezed her hand and was gone.

It had taken her hours to pick that blasted dress out. Whole closets were torn apart in the process. In the end, she gave up and bought herself a new one, a black knee-length thing on the classy end of sexy—or so she hoped. Something to catch his eye. She didn’t know his heart like she did her—the other—Doctor’s. Not yet. But while she was figuring it out, there was no reason not to make him glad he was here. To find ways to tell him _yes_ , to say _still want you, always_.

Of course that ran the risk of him misinterpreting it as a desperate plea— _love me still, even after all this time, still want me, please, after so many years, please still want me_ —but the way they were dancing around each other the last few days, afraid to step on each other’s toes, she hoped he’d choose the kinder (or at least the more dignified) interpretation.

And so she wore something she hoped would make him stare.

And _oh_ , did he stare.

He stood in the doorway of her bedroom when he came to get her, leaned against it and just...smiled and shook his head, apparently lost for words. And she met his eyes and smiled too and then his smile slowly bloomed into an outright grin and she was awash with relief and the giddy bubbling joy she’d always felt with him before. Any fears she’d had about an awkward evening immediately vanished—they would be just fine.

They were going to be just fine.

"Gorgeous," he said, but there was something husky in his voice, a note of approval that was entirely male and worth every bit as much as the word itself.

"Could say the same thing for you, mister," she said, eyeing him over. "I just have to put my earrings in and I'm ready. Come zip me up?"

"Mmph," he said.

She laughed despite herself. “Is that a yes?”

He ambled up slowly behind her, and through the mirror she watched him look her over, his eyes dark. Watched his hand come up and entirely miss the zip; felt his thumb start at the base of her neck and stroke featherlight down her spine. Slow, like he was tasting it. Let his palm rest on her hip afterward, thumb stroking.

“Do I have to?”

It took her a moment to remember to breathe.

“You’re gonna have to eventually,” she managed. “If you ever want us to leave the house, at least.”

Something danced in his eyes at that, and he wore this funny smile after she said it. In the end, though, he chose to keep mum. He kissed the back of her head and zipped her up, inspecting his work and then smiling at her through the mirror.

“So where are we going? You never said.”

“Restaurant in Hampstead.” He appeared to become distracted by her shoulder; he studied it for a moment and then bent his head to plant a kiss there. “And then, Rose Tyler, I am taking you dancing.”

“Dancing.” She knew she was grinning like an idiot now, couldn’t help it, didn’t want to.

“Yes.” And suddenly his voice was low in her ear, his lips right there, so close. “Because I do dance, Rose. And I could dance with you. If you want.”

“Well.” She swallowed hard, wondering distantly when this game of seduction had been flipped so soundly on its head. Liking it anyway. Loving it. “Good, ‘cause I… _really_ wanna dance with you.”

They laughed together, a little nervous and giddy both, and she was glad she wasn’t alone there. Impossible to tell where the literal dancing ended and the innuendo started. Didn’t matter. He was in earnest. There was no question left; he’d answered it before she’d asked.

They were going to be just fine. Better than fine. They were going to be brilliant. _Fantastic_.

“Ready?” He offered her a hand, wiggled his fingers as he’d done so many times before.

“Always,” she said, and let him lead.


End file.
